


out-bastarded

by ineternity



Series: Exiled on Earth: The Master tapes [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Crack, Drowning, Gen, Italian Mafia, bastards being bastards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23811370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineternity/pseuds/ineternity
Summary: In his time on Earth The Master wastes no time in having fun.Unfortunately hiring clowns to attend a mafia family's funeral procession isn't considered very fun by the family in question.
Series: Exiled on Earth: The Master tapes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715596
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15





	out-bastarded

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. Where did this come from?

It’s night-time and The Master is lying on the beat-up sofa again. The only comfort provided by the men that were keeping him here. ’ _Armed bastards’_ \- he would fondly call them each morning when they burst into the room, screaming in furious Italian.

The dispute had started a month ago. Him in a graveyard, a small funeral procession a few metres away. Everything had become rather messy very quickly and if it hadn’t been for a well-placed waxwork museum a few miles away he might have been in serious shit for the first time in his unbearable stint on Earth.

They’d found him eventually. Sloppiness, his fault for not caring enough about their pathetic human emotions and taking the time to erect a 50ft long ‘So Sorry For Your Loss’ banner above the family’s house a few days later- a gesture he considered to be very big considering that genocide was his typical reaction.

‘On your fucking knees!’ One of them screams.

At least that’s what he thinks the tall one is shouting. He only recognises ‘cazzo’ or ‘fuck’ from his days spent learning the language inside the vault.

His knees buckle involuntarily, bashing against the stone floor. One of the bastards grabs his chin and yanks it upward.

‘Where’s the fucking body?’

Apparently, the non-committal shrug is enough to earn a kick to the stomach. Good thing he hadn’t eaten.

After the second kick, a helpful image of burnt toast manifests itself in his head. He hums.

_Looks kind of like I used to._

‘Speak up. What’s my fucking name?’

He wonders if it’s even necessary to translate any other parts of the man’s speech, given that the only words he seems to use are fuck, fucked and fucking. _Cazzo, cazzo e cazzo._ Words Missy had learnt in a fruitless effort in both annoyance and seduction.

In any other scenario this would be embarrassingly arousing. He tries to imagine it’s The Doctor doing this. It helps. A lot.

The Master eventually mumbles a sarcastic retort, earning a not entirely unpleasant slap round the face.

‘Wrong answer. Try again.’ The one who calls himself Mario growls. The Master makes a note never to take this man seriously. He _can’t_ say ‘Mario’ with a straight face, right?

After a small shake of his head he is grabbed by the hair. It’s more painful than he anticipates, and a small scream escapes his mouth. The dragging lasts the length of the hallway. The Master can feel locks of his hair pulling off in the man’s grip.

The fleshy inside of his cheek bursts under the pressure of gritted teeth. There’s a hot pain searing through his neck from the strain of the angle, almost enough to break it.

The men stop at a door that looks too refined to be there at all. He barely has time to admire it before he is thrown hard onto a concrete floor. _Varnished Mahogany,_ the owners are either rich or bored then.

‘What do you think the most painful way to die is?’ Armed bastard Mario spits in his ear, ‘Something slow? Something where you beg me to spare you with your pretty little mouth. Mm?’

The Master whimpers as something pulls back on a strip of fabric around his neck.

‘Use that treacherous fucking throat of yours, bitch.’

Despite his best efforts, only a gasping, wheezing noise fills the air.

‘That’s what I fucking thought.’

The cloth tightens. Someone beside him jams a sweaty hand over his eyes.

‘Put him under.’

His head is jerked downwards. A torrent of something _hard_ collides with the side of his face like someone is pummelling their fists into his cheeks. Another of the henchman? No. It’s a liquid.

It takes him a shameful amount of time to recognise the coarse, torrential flow of the Tiber.

_They’re trying to drown him._

The Master almost laughs out loud but manages to clamp his mouth shut just in time.

_How long should he leave it?_

_A minute?_

_An hour?_

_No._

He lets the water wash over him, begins to feel the familiar burning sensation of empty lungs. The fire spreads outwards, spreading like his body is a forest, scorching every nerve in his brains.

One of the armed bastards presses a boot to the back of his head, forcing it further under the surface. A rogue stream of water shoots into his nose, making his whole head scream with discomfort.

_What an embarrassing way to go. Engaging your respiratory bypass for the first time in years, then dying from water shooting up your nose._

After a small eternity the river slows. The Master eyes droop slowly shut. Ah, sweet sleep.

‘É fatta?’

(It is done?)

‘Sì. Il bastardo se n'è andato.’

(Yes. The bastard is gone.)

‘E hai trovato il corpo? Il corpo di nostra nonna?’

(And you found her body? Our grandmother’s body?)

‘Si... Signore.’

(Yes… Sir.)

’Dov'era?’

(Where?)

‘Non è ripetibile. Signore.’

(It is not repeatable. Sir.)

‘Dov’era.’

(Where.)

‘Era la scuola di clown, signore. Il suo corpo ... c'era crema pasticcera dappertutto, i pagliacci erano dappertutto.’

(It was the clown school, sir. Her body- there was custard everywhere, the clowns they were-)

‘ **Cazzo**.’

‘Lo ucciderò, cazzo- AAACCHH!’

The Master’s blade sinks into the back of the man’s neck.

‘Chop chop darling. Better scurry along.’

He makes a shooing motion with the knife. The man screams, tramples through the door into the villa. The door splinters, slams to the floor in pieces.

The Master gasps.

‘That is mahogany!’

He throws the knife. It arcs through the air in a perfect semicircle before implanting itself into the back of the bastard.

‘Always wanted to say that.’

The bastard’s blood makes a beautiful Jackson Pollock splatter on the floor. He adds his own trail of red footprints for good measure.

Drowning had been fun. Not telling the men about the clowns he had hired to disfigure their grandmother’s body had been even more fun. Not that the Doctor would approve. Not that it mattered.

It seemed the lovely villa had a river flowing through it. Fantastic idea, bad for structural integrity. Now if he could just divert it… Armed bastard soup.

Yum. He hadn’t eaten in days after all. Would it really be that bad?

**Author's Note:**

> Still not sure where this came from. Have a nice evening! :)


End file.
